you’re looking at a very desperate flamingo.

“i was 12. i asked for a bike. i got a 43 year old whore.”

- the janitor from scrubs

i’m thinking of putting this in the la weekly. tell me how it sounds…

“21 yr old mentally addled yet able minded songwriter/performer seeks female counterpart to hang out, share ideas, stories, silences both awkward and comfortable, and possibly and probably practice making babies. must be low maintenance but graceful, creative in fields such as writing, and performing on stage and/or screen. must have great taste in music, film, television, and art. jews preferred but i am very flexible. must have car and good driving record seeing as i cannot drive due to slight crippling anxieties. any takers?”

i’m writing again.
i’m trying to write a neo-oldies tune.

you’ve got me humming like a cable hanging from a pole
you’ve got me giving light to the neighborhood.
i had a plan; a get rich quick scheme
but my accomplice in fact was in cahoots with another team.
you’ve got me singing songs with notes that my gut can’t hold.
i figured sometimes it’s just the way you have to let shit go.
i had a plan; i was gonna start a business
in the middle of my city; you’d be my wife
and my work would be my mistress.
when you found me i was the best id ever been in years
i wonder, was the best i’ve done so far what lead me here?
i was in jail but got out on good behavior
probation broke when i found you out in all the places i’d saved you
in my head
in all the places i held you.

…and this…

flipping off the school police
they’re not people like you and me.
we were born at the feet of our mother hometown
but now the pavement’s stripped from under us
where the buildings still remain
don’t be afraid of the school police.

when im a ghost i’ll sport my goodwill clothes
in all the states worth visiting
lift my voice with the morning machinery
when you wake you won’t hear a thing.
my home will be a widow but she’ll get along well
so i won’t feel too bad.
when she brings along a man made of money
i’ll make the neighborhood collapse
don’t be afraid
let the neighborhood collapse
i’m gonna make a stand and fold my chair
and fake a miracle
and dance around so the preacher in the circus tent
remembers what he’s here for.
if you push me up that wheelchair ramp
if i get to heaven they just might send me back
if i find out the great light is just a reading lamp
don’t be afraid
they might send us back.

…yup
it feels good to be writing again. other than that i have a few grievances, yet i’m not too miserable where i’d give up being able to talk to people and make new friendships. none of my job prospects have yet to reply back to me and i’ve got about four weeks left, going on three and a half.
but honestly, it just feels good to be able to talk to girls again. i forgot there were so many out there, even if i’ve only hung out with a few.
i dunno. i’m just gonna keep doing what i’m doing. it’s getting better, i hope. i feel something getting better. just don’t know where it’s coming from.

possible song titles:

Goodbye, John. I’m Sorry I Made Your Life So Miserable. (benjamin linus said that)

Once I Learn The Red Scare, You’re All Dead (that’s an old one that i’m bringing back)

Milton Moorehead Is Willy Loman.

(see the title of this blog.)

….

i should have been asleep awhile ago.
nite.

i’m anonymous! al salcido is anonymous!!! (hopetease)

all is not unwell.

shit’s kinda ok. another show coming up in june. on the 12th, to be exact. i’m turning 21 on the 10th.  i don’t know what i am gonna do for the show, performance-wise, but i hope i along with a few chums, can put on a good show.

there’s a new gal on my mind for the moment.

and in this instant, i can tell the killers are gonna be around for a good while. i’d hope so. they give you that slight teasing feeling, not so much of hope, but of the idea that they could give you hope.  i like that. its like crushing on a girl who gives you a single ray of light through closed blinds. she reminds you that you’re gonna be alright.
anyway, i’m happier than usual. got my sadness on reserve as always but that’s for another time.

i’ve written half of two songs.

i gotta work on em.

going to the getty today.

wish me luck.

hi ash.

asshole’s intuition.

recording a lot of new songs. somewhat electric, vocally muffled and noticeably different sounding tunes. they’re actually structured songs. half of them written on the spot, some of them inspired by tunes i’d written years ago, fleshed out in a matter of hours.

i’ve been pulling occasional all nighters in my bathroom loosely structuring songs and fucking around until my head throbs and i’m babbling to myself in the wee hours of the morn.

my sleep pattern is on again off again fucked.

i’m gonna have something big and great to say soon. i don’t know what it’ll be, but it’ll be something.

jokes about dead people.

so i started this today.

When my Aunt Barbara was still with us, us being the Earth, she had a boyfriend named Willie, who’d lived with us for the last five years of her life.  Willie was polite, but neither kind nor at all interesting. He sported short sleeve flannel dress shirts and a pair of beaten up khaki shorts and drank to excess. He wasn’t a touchy-feely drunk. However, there were those occasions where he’d give my ex-girlfriend a taste of his bloodshot bedroom stare whenever he had taken back a pint too many of Jim Beam. He had this thing for red worm tequila. Well, in fairness it wasn’t so much the drinking as it was for his collection of red worms which I believe had grown into the hundreds in a cleaned-out pickle jar on the nightstand.

Aunt Barbara, all the while gradually worsened. Eight years ago, she’d been in the best physical and emotional shape of her life. She was too sweet of a woman to be the man-eating type, but she sure as hell could have been for a gal at the ripe age of fifty-two. At fifty-seven, she’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer, which by that time had already spread to stage two. At fifty-eight, she’d reached stage four of the cancer, despite surgery and numerous chemotherapy sessions. It later spread to her lungs, and by fifty-nine, her once oak-strong optimism had slowly softened to sap, until she eventually decided to give up on life before it could give up on her. She still occasionally smiled and cracked a joke just to appease her biggest fans, but I could see in her eyes that she felt like she was just killing time. She’d made peace where there had been none. There’d been no real turmoil, either. Just sort of a quiet place of discontent. In my head, I assumed she just convinced herself that she’d done enough of good with her time and that it was evenly reciprocated, or recycled throughout the universe.  This year, at sixty she died quietly in the middle of the night, the one night I’m gone.

Barbara never really gave herself to God, if there is one. She was no heathen, but something of an agnostic well-wisher.   Lady never went to church, but she’d cross herself upon entering the freeway. She never really claimed a stock in superstition but would chuck salt over her shoulder as fast as she spilt it, and kept three handed-down rabbits feet on her nightstand, rivaling Willie’s ever-growing collection of tequila worms. Anyone could easily assume that she believed solely in luck, but she’d never admit it. What would happen if God existed? She’d feel like an asshole. In an attempt to dodge that feeling, she just put her chips down on any and everything she believed could be true. Faith and belief was the only area of life she was fickle about. The good and bad sort of evened out in life, and never really attested any of it to God’s will or luck but if anything believed in the possibilities.

One may ask themselves: Why or how could a sweet woman meet such a sad demise with an asshole like Willie Fredericks lounging in the living room watching the E! Channel from a la-z-boy? Well, here’s how.

When Auntie turned fifty-five, we had a grand backyard party for her, consisting of most of her friends, most of mine, and our friends of friends of friends. I always loved these kinds of seasonal shindigs because all it meant was us youngsters of our respective teens and twenties would get to pound beers and drink wine and champagne with an awesome group of old timers. Most of these pearls of people were retired and well into living for that Jimmy Buffett dream of island escapism. Get drunk enough and we’d swim in sing-alongs. Most of the songs the young kids didn’t know, but we merely sang interpretations of a melody until we got the refrain. I purposely learned most of Jimmy Buffett’s “Fruitcakes” album for this grand event.  Anyway, the party starts, we’re all living, loving, drinking, checking out some of the hotter twenty-somethings and senior citizens and Auntie comes up to me hyper and half buzzed and tells me, “Oh, Bobby!! I’m so excited, I have someone coming over that I want you to meet! I met him last week at your Aunt Rebecca’s picnic. His name is William and he is the nicest guy ever!!!” Auntie rarely dated or liked any guy since my Uncle Jerry died back in 89.  She had somewhat of a list of potential suitors, none of which ever tested well in durability, loyalty or reliability.  I’d prided myself on being protective of my Auntie.

that’s all i’ve got right now.

well, i figured since you wouldn’t let me give ya a blowjob, then i’d give you a tie.

well, i figured since you wouldn’t let me give ya a blowjob, then i’d give you a tie.

it’s been a weekend chock full of nothingness and everything. i took a mini road trip up north with curtis and marco to a quaint little dutch town called solvang. on the way we made a stop at ventura beach, where we met up with one of marco’s uncles who spends his sundays with his oldest buddies, serenading the nice white people with beautiful acoustic beatles and creedence covers.

i figured if i grow old enough into this cooky old man, i’d do the same. however, i’d do things differently. i’d try and be a one-man flaming lips show, throwing smokeballs, wearing glow sticks all over my body, and relying on a taped recording of an acoustic guitar playing, while i just fake what i already know. and i’d do lots of nine inch nails covers, and they’d would be really bad. nothing more than pity money for the crazy old man. i’d retreat to my private beach house and use the money for my painkiller dependency. i will be sixty-six years old, weigh 96 pounds and have dreadlocks.

anyway, all dreaming put aside…it was a short day long road trip and i was brutally and horrendously stoned the whole way through. it is a rarity waking up to a weed hangover. what follows are the usual thoughts and feelings at the end of each weekend.
….everything’s over now. welcome back to being a piece of shit, al. you shouldn’t have smoked so much, al. you should cut back on your boozing, al. your beer gut is expanding, al. you have to stand up for something, al. cmon, just like wayne coyne said. you’ve got to keep up appearances, al. people don’t like you getting drunk in their house anymore, al. you better have something to say, al. you have to be charming. you have to be engaging. don’t fuck this up, al….

anyway, all dreams within dreaming aside.

i’m becoming obsessed with comedy. well, not obsessed with it, just the idea of creating something truly funny, even if it means it has to be sad. i’ve been catching a few woody allen flicks, as well as the don rickles documentary. it takes me back to my childhood (or kiddom) when i’d stay up and watch the dean martin celebrity roast infomercials. i don’t know, there was something inviting and heartwarming about a bunch of funny old men talking shit to each other. it’s like a lost art form, the way comedy goes today. at least i think so…in my world that’s the way it goes. i don’t know. it could be a phase.  i have the feeling that i know  funny.  there’s a part of me, deep deep down there somewhere wherever it is my narrative may be pointing towards, that is and knows how to be funny.

i still feel like writing that story about the kid who escapes a kidnapping. there’s a lot more to it. i think.

my st. patrick’s day was sweet. i played “roxanne” for the first time in a while and getting drunk actually felt good until i passed out. i was supposed to talk life with caesar, but i nodded off in my chair.

i have two smokes left. i haven’t written a song in days and i sort of don’t care. i think that’s progress. emphasize the ’think.’

they’re playing cloverfield at the norwalk dollar theatre. let’s go.

cause=time

so i met a gal about four weeks ago. nothing serious, just a mutual crush. nice girl, too.  reminds me a lot of me. is that a good thing? i’ll take it that way. it’s going slow, unless she’s quietly had a change of heart, then in that case, i’m back to square one. haven’t talked to her since friday and i’m thinking she finally found out what she got herself into. if not, then everything still goes well. i think i’m losing the plot again. i remember have an existence to legally prove.

i’m becoming obsessed with comedy.  more less the art of writing and performing it.

i have what i think is the entire broken social scene discography, minus the kevin drew cd.

i haven’t written a song in days and it doesn’t bother me that much.

i have flea bites on my hands and my left one’s a bit swollen.

remember that i love you

my head is gonna burst

fuck most of you though no one reads this.

the devil has texas

ive got 21 bucks in my pocket and 21 daniel johnston albums in my possession. i’ve been drinking alot of coffee. i’ve been talking a little bit to this girl i might sort of like. i dunno yet. nothing real. i mean it’s very unlikely anything would or could happen. but most i could say is that she reminds me alot of me but in a good way.

i just may keep my big mouth shut though. let it pass.

other than that i’ve been doing a lot of recording. i’m coming up to a brick wall again, where i don’t think i’ll be able to get through for a few days. i may have those nasty writer’s withdrawals in a few days. i hate that. i get snippy.

standout songs so far from the daniel dale johnston collection:

all of “Songs Of Pain”(pothead) and “More Songs Of Pain.”(more dead than alive)
davinare…”worthless bum, says I.”

i’m on the 1990 album right now. good so far.

oh yeah, our deceased pet is now resting in an urn above the television.

here’s looking at you, whoever you are.

a winchester does not rub elbows with mattress buttons.

hm. the oldest dog passed away today. it was said shadow had a heart murmur and a collapsed spine, amazing the vet that he could still walk at all. he was put out of his whisper quiet (this dog never made a sound) suffering sometime today between 5 and 6 pm.

it’s been somewhat of a quiet weird night.

life goes on, and i’m living a quiet dream. surfing the web listening to street legal, with M*A*S*H playing in front of me.

life goes on and that’s the most important thing right now.

when that dog did walk, i always pictured an old man, comforted by the fact he’d lived a great and full life, which in turn made death easier. although the two don’t quite meet, he did remind me a bit of my dad.

my mom died fourteen years ago this month.

a politician committed suicide on live tv 20 years ago.

heath died yesterday and now we’ve lost shadow.

this is a weird month.

sixteen years. sixteen banners united over the fields.

tonight, or this morning depending on your belief concerning where the day actually begins (once the clock strikes twelve, yesterday’s on the shelf) i reintroduced myself to bob dylan’s “street legal,” an album which for some reason i completely detested.

about three years ago, i had my biggest female fan, who oddly attested to my music giving her orgasms. she’d become my first real and only girlfriend and there’d been only two nights where i spent the night with her at her house, about five walking minutes from where i am now. the first time we laid in her living room, and in the morning, i slickly slid out of parental eyes by the skin of my yellow gapped teeth, whereas the second and last time i was in her bedroom and in the morning, we’d been caught half naked (no sex) from oversleeping and i dressed and scurried my way out.

anyway…to street legal. the first time i spent the night there we fell asleep to the record and i’d been taking in these songs i hadn’t heard before…i hadn’t been fully immersed in who bob dylan was and what his music would bring to my table. although she was an odd creature and sort of a pretentious bitch, i will admit without her i wouldn’t have had the access to dylan at the time i needed it.
with this record being an acquired taste i hated it for all the wrong reasons. mostly the horrible picture of what looked like a glam rock dylan on the back of the vinyl. i totally and wrongfully judged the book by its cover. back cover, i should say. his eyes were painted with black eyeliner and he looked two decades too old for it. to top it off he wore this godawful puffy shirt. something reminiscent to prince. he looked like a white and wrinkled old man trying to be Prince. he had no guitar, he didn’t look like a hero. from my naive and unlearned point of view, it looked like a portrait of a man losing complete grips on himself and his life. Oddly it wasn’t until later, i’d learn what losing yourself really meant.
from studying and reading up on this period of his life i’d found out a couple of things. he’d been losing his family, elvis had died, and songs weren’t coming in as quick and as easy as they used to.

Worse, he was being notified that his next tour was to be a memorial “greatest hits” tour. his body wasn’t even cold and already he was supposed to play these songs that really had no place in his heart anymore, for the sake of making some dough and spotlighting a career that was far from over. he thankfully pulled himself together enough to slowly fashion some sort of new ambitions to become whole as well as audible and tangible. From creating something more of a entertainment experience, as he did for the rolling thunder revue (which explained the dressing up) bob and his new band crafted nine songs (if not more), and made what we know as Street Legal.

not purposely making a comparison to lump myself in with him, but at twenty years, i feel like my dream job, my career, and my life is done when it hasn’t even started. i haven’t done or seen anything great yet, but already i feel immensely tired and overworked from trying to. as he once sang with something of an electric desperation, “I’ve got a head full of ideas that are driving me insane.” my ambition gets ahead of the audible and tangible creations i long to complete. i desperately hunger to finish Idiotboxing. I’d love to finish my wrestlemania record one day. i don’t know if i’d ever be able or so bold as to try and finish The Korean War, but if i could, i would, if my mind wouldn’t get so ahead of my feet.

that’s why i’m able to let it go and accept this record for everything it is and was supposed to be.

back then that night, i expressed my strong hatred for the album and in turn to spite me, she looped the record until my morning escape.

i’m sort of grateful for that. that’ll teach me. i guess.